Gone A-Go-Go

by Swimfan

 

The first night after the boys and I were all done with our finals, we hit the local nightclub circuit. Just a five minute walk from our dorm were some of the hottest clubs in town, mostly because of the young crowd of college students. We went there to drink and have a good time striking out with women who are way out of our league. It's true that every now and then at least one of us would get on base, but we'd almost never score. We weren't exactly the best-looking bunch out there: a gang of quasi-geeks usually more interested in studying than partying. Girls tend to go for athletes, but I, for one, still found it fun to talk to them. When they'd let me.

The Whiskey-a-go-go was my favourite. There was almost always a good crowd there on Friday nights, and, as you might guess from the name, there were go-go dancers in skimpy outfits dancing all night in strategic areas all around the club. The other places also had a couple of go-go girls, but this one had at least a dozen. I could always console myself after striking out with yet another college co-ed by looking up onto the mini-stages and cages, and staring at someone much prettier and sexier than the last object of my lust. Too bad the dancers were always escorted by bouncers -- obviously to keep them from getting harassed by losers like us.

It was getting late. I had danced my heart out with one sorta cute brunette, and for a few songs I thought I had a pretty good chance of getting a phone number. But then she swung back towards the more athletic but obnoxious guy on the other side of her. It looked like another fruitless night. Dejected, I motioned to my friends that I needed to take a leak.

As I exited the men's room, and made my way back to the crowded dance floor, I was almost run over by a gorgeous woman caked in makeup and wearing knee-high platform boots, hot pants, and a bikini top. I practically lost my cookies as I beheld her divine proportions, right in front of me.

"I'm sorry," she said, touching my arm, "I didn't see you there. I've got to get to that platform. I'm up next!"

"Is that the best you can do?" I said, as she continued on her way. A pair of bouncers were watching from the end of the hall. I didn't have much time.

She turned around in mid-stride, with a puzzled, almost annoyed look on her face. "What?" she asked.

"I said, 'Is that the best you can do.'"

"What, is my makeup fucked up? Are my boobs hanging out?"

"No," I replied. "Your pick-up line."

"Pick-up line?"

"Yeah. Most of the women who compete for my attention at least go to the trouble of coming up with something witty."

You can see why I strike out so often. To my amazement, she giggled girlishly and came back in my direction.

"You know," she said, "that's pretty bold. Most guys are deathly afraid of talking to girls like me. I admire your courage."

"Thanks."

"I like you. You should give me a call sometime."

Unbelievably, she gave me her phone number, which I had to memorize since I had no pen, and watched her run back to the bouncer escorts. Her name was Corinne. I knew that I would spend the rest of the night watching her dance. Luckily, two of my friends actually saw me talking to her, so I wouldn't sound like a lying idiot when I told everyone else about it.

To my unending amazement, it was actually she who answered the phone when I called her the next day, and, believe it or not, she immediately remembered me. We made arrangements to meet for coffee that afternoon.

She was just as hot in her regular clothes as her go-go outfit. She wore a tight tank top and a very short khaki mini-skirt. Even if it never went any further than that, I would be forever satisfied that I was able to spend ten minutes in the company of such a remarkable specimen of femininity.

"So what do you do when you're not dancing," I asked.

"I'm a student. I study Psychology at the University."

"Really? I'm studying Engineering there!"

"Wow," she said. "That's impressive!"

"What got you into dancing?"

"You like the way I dance?"

"Of course!"

"You know, you're not such a bad dancer yourself."

"Really? How do you know?"

"I've seen you around the clubs. Usually from my platform. You put a lot of heart into it when you're trying to impress someone."

"Yeah, but it never works."

"It worked on me."

I was floored by the irony: I tried so hard to get the plain janes on the dance floor to notice me, with very little success; and meanwhile, Corinne -- one of the most beautiful and sexy women I've ever seen -- was watching me all along, mesmerized by my moves.

"You can't be serious," I replied.

"No, for real. You've got great potential. Most guys just stand there shuffling from one foot to the other. You've got a sort of Napoleon Dynamite thing going for you."

It was true: I did copy all those stock dance moves. I figured it would help me stand out, and get the ladies' attention. It actually worked!

"You know," she continued, "you should audition to be a go-go dancer! There's plenty of guys who do it. The money I make from it pays my rent."

She had a point. I needed money to last through the summer, or else I'd have to go back to my parents' house in Dullsville, far away from all the action in the heart of the city -- and, of course, Corinne. Imagine the fun I could have hanging out with her all summer...

"Do you think I've got the physique to be a go-go dancer? I mean, the guys I've seen doing that are all incredibly cut..."

"Oh, don't worry about that. You're thin and lanky. We can make you pretty cute. The important thing is that you can dance. Everything else is secondary."

That very evening, she brought me to the Whiskey, and introduced me to Andy, the manager. He was clearly unimpressed, and asked for a demonstration of what I could do. I broke out some of my best moves, but he remained stonefaced.

"Take off your shirt and do that," he demanded.

I complied, and tried to mix in a few other moves. It was pretty hard without music.

He turned to Corinne and said, without even looking at me, "I can't use that. He's got no muscles."

"But Andy, don't you just love his moves?"

"Yeah, they're pretty good, but he doesn't have the right look for a Saturday night."

"What about Tuesday nights," she asked.

"Tuesdays? You think you can make him over a bit?"

"Easily! Just look at him! He'll be a big hit!"

"OK, if you're so sure, why don't you bring him back on Tuesday, and we'll see how it goes?"

"It's a deal!"

Corinne assured me that she would show me how to impress Andy, and get me a spot on the lucrative Tuesday night.

"Man, the Tuesday night dancers make at least twice as much as me. I envy you!"

"So why don't you dance on Tuesdays?" I asked.

"Because I don't quite appeal to the kind of crowd they have on Tuesdays."

That's when I remembered that Tuesdays are Gay Night at the Whiskey. "Corinne, there's no way I'm dancing for a bunch of gay guys."

"You'll make at least $300."

She had an amazing talent for persuasion.

Tuesday finally came around, and Corinne invited me over to her place to get ready. I was quite nervous about the night ahead. I was glad that I was so lean, remembering that gay men tend to like beefcake. I figured I'd be safe from grasping hands and harassment.

We had a bite to eat, and then she invited me to take a shower. She asked me so seductively that I was sure she meant to get naughty with me. But instead, she handed me a can of Nair and opened the faucet.

"What's this for?" I asked.

"Have you ever seen a hairy dancer? Just be careful not to get any on your head!"

She left the bathroom and let me disrobe alone. I hesitated for a moment with the depilatory cream, but I realized that she was right. I needed to be smooth and hairless if I were to have any success.

Once I was done, she opened the door and inspected my legs, chest, and belly. I was disappointed that she didn't even peek under the towel to see how I did on my big hardening cock.

"Good job! Now let's pick out an outfit for you."

She led me to her walk-in closet, which was filled with g-strings, thongs, corsets, bustiers, bathing suits, and all kinds of funky high-heeled boots and platform sandals.

"You expect me to believe that you have something for me to wear in all these ultra-girlie things?" I asked, jokingly, as she opened a dresser that I fully expected to have something masculine in it.

"Don't worry, you can pick anything you like."

"Out of what?"

"What do you mean, 'out of what?' You've got all my outfits to choose from!"

"Your outfits?"

"Don't worry, we're about the same size. Some things might be a bit too tight for you, but that's a good thing on Gay Night."

"You can't be serious."

"Of course I am."

"I am not wearing your hotpants."

She turned around and took me in her arms. I was still wearing nothing but a towel.

"Oh, Robbie," she said, consolingly. "Don't worry. You'll look so sexy! You'll make so much money..."

I was getting a serious boner. She pressed her body against mine. She knew all about my erection, and it made her smile. My heart melted.

"OK, I'll do it."

She gave me a black satin and lace thong she had in her hand from rummaging in her dresser, and coaxed me into putting it on. It was the strangest sensation I'd ever felt. I had put on my briefs over my erect penis before, but this softness and smoothness was unlike anything I had ever felt, other than when fooling around with a few much less attractive women. The cloth between my butt cheeks was quite disconcerting. So this is what it feels like to wear a thong, I thought. I tried to not think of it as an article of women's clothes, to make it easier to go through with this ordeal.

Next she had me slip on a pair of hot pink hot pants. The back of the thong stuck out over the top of the little shorts, which couldn't possibly go any higher without making me a soprano. My cock was bulging against it grotesquely. It felt like I was wearing boxers ten sizes too small, only softer, and much more revealing. And pink.

When I put on the bikini bra, I felt like it was going too far. For some reason, even after I put on the panties, I still couldn't fathom what was happening to me. Somehow, I managed to convince myself that I wasn't wearing women's clothes. The brassiere changed all that. There was no way around it: I was dressed like a girl. And I was doing it in the presence of a stunningly beautiful woman whom I had a serious crush on. I wanted to put a stop to it, but she looked so pleased. I figured it should be ok, it was only temporary, and I would get paid very well for my trouble.

Finally, she had me zip into some black platform go-go boots. They were much too small, but I somehow managed to fit into them. When I stood up in them, I found that I could barely walk. The extra height they gave me was frightening. The heels were so high that they forced me to stick out my butt. She had me walk around her apartment a few times to get my balance. The smoothness of my smooth, hairless thighs rubbing together was disturbingly arousing.

"Now, do a few dance moves, and see if you can stay on your feet!"

I found myself swinging my hips much more than usual, partly because of the boots. I was completely self-conscious. I was off-balance. And above all, I was uncomfortable in these feminine clothes.

"You know, I don't think that outfit quite works for you. Let's try something different."

"What? I thought we were done!" I just wanted to get it over with.

"Are you kidding? We haven't even done your wig and makeup yet! We're a couple of hours away from being done. Here, get out of those clothes and try these on."

She had me strip completely naked, and get into some white bikini panties, a micro-mini skirt, and a white sports bra. Then I struggled into a white pair of the same boots I just had on. She made me walk around and dance in this outfit, too.

I danced a little better this time. I was beginning to forget about my predicament, and have a little fun with it. Corinne could tell that I was finally lightening up.

"That's better, but still not right."

She let me keep on the sports bra, but I had to take off the boots and panties and skirt and get into some fishnet pantihose. This was again an altogether bizarre sensation. My smooth legs, which had felt cold and vulnerable where they were naked, now felt snug all over, yet soothingly ventilated. I put on lime green hot pants over the top of the pantihose, and put on another different pair of black go-go boots. I pranced around like a model, and did a little girlish twirl as I turned around. I was really hamming it up with the dance moves. Corinne was ecstatic.

"Perfect! You look gorgeous! Now lets do your hair and makeup."

She spent the next half hour adjusting a wig on my head. I was now a redhead, with sexy locks all the way down to the top of my hotpants. Finally, she applied all sorts of makeup to my face and neck. I looked like a whore. If not for the total lack of a waist, and the big, obvious bulge in my little shorts, I would have looked completely female.

"Beautiful!" she exclaimed. "You look beautiful! You'll knock 'em dead!"

I gushed with humility. As uncomfortable as I was, and as unnatural as I felt in women's clothing, I craved Corinne's praise.

"Now let's get to the Whiskey," she said, leading me by the hand to her bedroom door.

I hesitated. "I'm going like this? Shouldn't I get back in my normal clothes and change when we get there?"

"Robbie, we have no time for that. We just spent three hours making you look pretty! We can't do all that again before the bar closes!"

"But I can't go out like this!"

She looked me up and down and thought about it for a few seconds. "You're right. That's much too revealing for you to walk all the way to the Whiskey in."

"Walk?!? Aren't we taking a cab?"

"Hell no! You need to get used to walking in those boots! Anyway, let's get you a little summer dress to cover up a bit, and you'll be fine."

With that, she zipped me into a floral print dress, and we headed for the Whiskey.

  

  

  

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